


Down for the Count and I'm Drownin'

by dreamlittleyo



Series: Distress and Disarray [5]
Category: Hamilton - Miranda
Genre: Alternate Universe - Science Fiction, M/M, Peril, Pining, Rank Disparity, Unrequited Crush, impaired judgment
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-20
Updated: 2018-07-20
Packaged: 2019-06-13 16:39:20
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,882
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15368820
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dreamlittleyo/pseuds/dreamlittleyo
Summary: In which Hamilton refuses to be done in by murderous plant life.





	Down for the Count and I'm Drownin'

"Alexander—"

"If you tell me to conserve my strength one more time, I swear to fucking Christ, I will set this phaser to overload and put us both out of my misery."

He expects Washington to either fall silent or reprimand him for insubordination. Hell, even if it's a reprimand, Hamilton isn't sorry. He can't tolerate another useless repetition of concern—it's not as though they can _stop moving_ —and he's in danger of losing what little calm he still clings to.

They don't have time for a screaming meltdown. The wind and sleet are already growing uncomfortable, and the storm will only worsen. They saw it approaching along the horizon hours ago. Hamilton didn't need his tricorder to tell him it was going to be bad; he's seen more than his share of storms.

It stands to reason: a planet with foliage this deadly must be prone to equally lethal weather.

Instead of silence or reprimand, Washington sets a hand on Hamilton's shoulder, stopping his forward momentum with a firm grip. "There's a cave at the bottom of this hill. We just need to veer right." Washington holds the tricorder in his other hand, screen a steady glow in the encroaching darkness.

Hamilton stares at him, clutching his aching side. He's so fucking cold, and he can't tell if it's because of the falling ice or if he's still bleeding. Probably he isn't dying. The tricorder in Washington's hand reads life signs just as well as topography. Surely if Hamilton were in danger of bleeding out, Washington would have insisted on carrying him by now.

"Okay." He raises his voice to be heard over a fresh howl of wind. "What're we waiting for? Let's go."

The cave is heaven after two hours of worsening torrent outside. Never mind the rocky floor or the near pitch-black or the ceiling so low they have to crouch just to make their way inside. It's dry, and it's free from the wind, and it's such a relief Hamilton wants to cry.

He sits, still and patient, as Washington scrounges up a small pile of stones for the center of the cave. Quick work, and then even quicker to set the stones glowing with a phaser blast on the lowest setting. Eerie light spreads, softening the grim shadows of the cave. Reddish and faint, but at least it's enough to see by. Warmth follows soon after, filling the space and dislodging the worst of the chill from Hamilton's bones.

It's only now that he realizes he's shaking—hard—and that his uniform is soaked through. His senses swim, a disoriented wave crashing over his head and turning everything blurry for several seconds. Fuck. If Washington hadn't spotted this cave, they might not have survived the storm.

"Let me see." Washington kneels beside him and starts tugging at the clasps of Hamilton's uniform. The jacket comes loose, and Hamilton pulls his hand away from his throbbing side. He tries to shrug out of his sleeves, but his whole body is stiff, and Washington ends up tugging the fabric away for him. It sticks a little, stings sharply when it pulls away from damaged skin, but Hamilton bites his lower lip to keep the yelp of pain from escaping.

" _Fuck_ ," he breathes, low and harsh, when the startled hurt fades to a more familiar pulse of discomfort. He feels foggy and wrong. Drunk. But the burning ache in his side stands out, stark and vivid alongside the bleary rest of his senses.

"Shirt too," Washington murmurs, and the words are soft with apology.

Hamilton nods, already bracing himself. "You'll have to—"

"Raise your arms as high as you can manage." Even quiet, and uncharacteristically kind, Washington's instructions carry the weight of command. Warm hands move efficiently, easing fabric away from the wound as gently as possible, and then tug the shirt over Hamilton's head and drop it to the side.

Careful as Washington is examining his wound, it still hurts like hell. Hamilton's vision clouds, shimmers, and his breath comes shallow and fast. When Washington's touch falls away, there's the hum of the tricorder. It takes Hamilton a moment to focus and _look_ at Washington again. He can just make out the crease between heavy brows in the dim light. There's worry in that expression, but no fear.

Figures, somehow, that Washington is touching him and Hamilton can't even enjoy it.

"The bleeding has nearly stopped," Washington says, setting the tricorder aside. "The spines must have been mildly poisonous; I don't know how else to account for the fever and the look of these readings. But your body seems to be combating the contagion. You're in no danger."

"Aside from the fact that the sky's falling down," Hamilton mutters.

For just an instant Washington cracks a tiny, exasperated smile. Then his expression falls serious again. "I wish we hadn't lost the damn medical kit. I don't have any way to clean or bind the wound. The last thing you need is an infection."

"I'll be fine." Hamilton's always had the feeling he was destined to die young, but a carnivorous flower is _not_ how he plans to go out. Hell, he feels better already, just sitting here. Fuzzy, but _warm_. Out of the pummeling sleet, out of the cold, shivering less with every passing moment.

Washington touches the back of his hand to Hamilton's forehead. A ridiculous gesture. Surely the tricorder already told him how hot a fever Hamilton is running. But then, maybe it's not about the data. An unlikely theory, but harder to debunk a moment later, when Washington smoothes back the sodden strands of hair that have come loose from Hamilton's queue.

The look on Washington's face is less guarded than usual. Sternness has fallen away, revealing something that looks alarmingly like affection.

Hamilton's skin warms despite the chill in his limbs. The glow of the cave is fading as exhaustion drags more insistently at his mind. Remaining conscious is beginning to require deliberate effort, but Hamilton keeps fighting. Not because he's scared—he trusts Washington's reassurances—but because he does not want to miss this. Washington is so close. Peering into his face with unfamiliar intensity.

It's damningly easy to sway forward and press a kiss to his general's startled mouth.

Easy, and over too quickly. Hamilton barely has time to note that yes, Washington's lips are precisely as soft as he's always imagined, before strong hands are clasping his shoulders and pushing him away. Holding him carefully at arm's length.

"Sir?" Hamilton is abruptly certain he's fucked up something irreparable, but he can't think clearly enough to figure out what.

He can't read Washington's expression anymore. The openness has vanished—at least he thinks it has—it's possible the black patches dancing across his vision are the real problem.

"Get some rest," Washington's voice admonishes as darkness encroaches more completely.

Then Hamilton is falling. Slowly. Controlled and smooth and not the slightest bit fearful. There's something soft beneath his head and a pulse of warmth in his chest, and Hamilton doesn't like sleep, but maybe just this once he will make an exception.

He wakes warm and dry and nauseous, with gummy eyes and a godawful taste in his mouth. When he blinks, he is surrounded by the same tiny cave, the same red burn of light. He's lying on his side on the hard floor, his flank still a stubborn pulse of pain, but his neck doesn't hurt like it should after sleeping on the ground.

It takes him several groggy seconds to figure out it's because his head is pillowed on Washington's thigh. His general sits perfectly still, but for the fingers carding steadily—almost meditatively—through Hamilton's hair. He doesn't seem to have noticed Hamilton is awake.

Impossible to tell how much time has passed, but it's obviously been a long while. His hair is dry, and he feels hungover. Whatever the hell that plant dosed him with, it's left him desperate for an analgesic hypo and a glass of water.

He doesn't want to tell Washington he's awake. He's enjoying the easy touch. The guilty chance to feel Washington's hands on him. Pleasant and welcome and almost certainly never to be repeated.

Bleary thoughts drift back through the storm. The wind. Shaky pain. Final moments of consciousness.

A kiss.

Oh. Fuck. 

" _Fuck_!" He pushes himself upright with a jolt, levering up from Washington's lap, cursing again when the movement sends a fresh shard of pain through his injured side.

" _Alexander_." Washington's hands are on him immediately. Steadying him, helping him balance instead of fall right over again. Careful. Maddening on the bare skin of Hamilton's arms. "Are you all right?"

"Fine," he lies breathlessly.

He is going to apologize. He is going to explain. He is going to lie through his fucking teeth if that's what it takes. He kissed his general. Maybe the sky is _still_ falling. It sure fucking feels like it.

But before Hamilton can find the words—or even draw a proper breath—Washington's comm badge chirps.

"Nelson to Washington. Do you read us, General?"

Stark relief brightens Washington's features, but he doesn't take his hands off Hamilton. "Loud and clear, Mr. Laurens."

"Took you long enough," Hamilton mutters, and doesn't particularly care if his voice carries over the comm line and onto the bridge. Even before the storm closed in, the Nelson was hours late for their scheduled rendezvous. Almost certainly for good reason, but that doesn't mean Hamilton has any intention of being gracious under the circumstances.

"Colonel Hamilton requires medical attention," Washington announces. "Can you beam us directly to sickbay?"

The answer is yes. And within a matter of minutes Hamilton is in perfect health; rid of the grinding headache and twisting nausea. Skin smooth and unbroken as he tugs on a fresh shirt and accepts the new uniform jacket Washington hands him.

They're alone in a private exam room. Quiet. Just the sort of expectant silence to make Hamilton painfully aware of the explanation he still has not offered.

He kissed his general.

"It's all right, Alexander." Washington speaks the words as though he knows exactly what Hamilton is thinking. Maybe he does. Hell, they've worked together long enough. They've worked _closely_ enough. No one knows him better than Washington; not even his best friends.

The very tips of Hamilton's ears heat. "It's not all right. I fucked up."

"You were hurt," Washington points out, calm and reasonable. "You were not thinking clearly."

"But—"

"It's _not important_ , Colonel." Washington's voice is blandly even. His expression as cool and steady as ever. "You don't need to explain yourself. I give you my word we will not discuss this again."

Relief and disappointment ricochet behind Hamilton's ribs, and he nods. Grateful. He sets aside his embarrassment for the moment; there will be time to feel truly mortified about this later. In private. It won't stop him from wanting things he has no business wanting from his general.

"You're dismissed." Washington gives a stiff nod. "Get some rest, Alexander. That's an order."

"Yes sir."

He leaves as quickly as he can manage without looking too desperate to get away. 

Even without turning his head, he can feel Washington's eyes follow his every retreating step.

**Author's Note:**

> Prompts: Conservation, Repetition, Survival


End file.
